


Damson Jam

by Rosalindfan



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:26:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7609141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosalindfan/pseuds/Rosalindfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foyle finds himself at a loose end one hot summer afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damson Jam

**August 1936**

 

How strange it was to be home in the afternoon, the sun streaming through the front windows of the house. The latest case had been wrapped up, the prisoners transferred and the station was quiet. He’d thanked his team for all the extra hours they’d put in and sent them home. Then he’d sat at his desk and opened yet another folder. Hugh Reid had stuck his head round the door.

“Still here?” he’d asked. “Thought you’d all gone home.”

“Nno, thought I’d make a start on these numbers for the AC,” Foyle had answered.

Reid had removed the folders from his desk and dumped them on the table under the window.

“Go home!” his friend had instructed. “Sit in the garden, scrub the kitchen floor, do nothing, do anything but this.”

Foyle knew when he was beaten. He’d put on his hat and walked home.

 

He looked around and sighed. What should he do? It was too hot to sit in the garden, and very little needed doing in the house. They’d got into a routine, he and Andrew, since they’d been on their own. He sat for a few minutes then stood up and prowled about the house. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to sort out those boxes he’d bundled into the front attic room. Andrew showed no interest in art, preferring to tinker with his bike or go out with friends, and Rosalind’s art materials had sat gathering dust for several years. He climbed the bare wooden stairs to the top of the house. It was oppressively hot up here but he shivered as he stood in the doorway. Dust motes danced in the air as he crossed to the window and forced the rarely used catch open. He raised the sash and fresh air was sucked in as into a vacuum. Three large cardboard boxes stood against the wall. He sat on the floor beside them and lifted down the first.

 

Carefully wrapped in scraps of cloth were an assortment of brushes, some broad, some as fine as a baby’s hair. All were clean and the tips smoothed – Rosalind was always scrupulous about her brushes. A few water pots, also clean, were in there with a handful of rags and a roll of red fabric. He fingered the brushes absently, wondering what he should do with them. Undecided he packed them away again carefully.

 

The second box contained a muddle of paints and palettes. Some were clean; others showed traces of the vibrant colours she had mixed for sky or sea. He’d always been impressed that she could see so many colours in what looked to him like a grey expanse of water. She’d laughed and said he had a policeman’s eye, not an artist’s. Should he take these downstairs and wash them? He put them to one side and opened the third box.

 

A few sheets of clean paper lay on the top. Lifting them out he found more paper, some smooth, some textured, all with work in various stages of completion - pencil sketches, colour washes of palest green or blue, some with details beginning to be picked out. There were landscapes he recognised even from the minimal backgrounds – her favourite places, painted again and again in different seasons, different light. He studied each one as he placed them on the floor beside him; the memories washing over him like the paint on the paper. Under these was her portfolio, two green boards with a fabric spine, tied with matching ribbon. A corner of buff-coloured paper protruded from one edge. He untied the ribbon and pulled out the paper and his heart contracted. His own face looked out at him, mouth serious but with the hint of a forming smile, eyes twinkling fixed on the artist, hair, longer than at present, curling over the ears. His shirt was open at the neck, the stitching of the collar and buttonhole delicately drawn with tiny marks, minute shading on his collar bones.

 

He stared at the portrait. Why had he never seen this before? Rosalind’s love was for landscape, not human studies, although she had done some lightning sketches of Andrew as a toddler. He’d never sat for a sketch – when had she done this? He turned the paper to see Rosalind’s neat handwriting on the back – ‘Christopher, November 1931’. His fingers cramped tightly on the paper. With difficulty he removed them and added the portrait to the pile next to him. He sat, elbows resting on raised knees and tried to slow his racing heart; he let his hands and head hang loosely, and closed his eyes.

 

_A misty November Sunday afternoon, he and Rosalind sitting in front of the fire in the dimming light, Andrew at a friend’s house for tea. The only sounds the crackling of the imperfectly dried wood on the fire and the steady tick of the clock in the corner. He was reading a newspaper – the local rag, when he felt that prickling sensation of being observed. He looked up. Rosalind was watching him, a faraway smile on her lips._

_“I wish I could make jam of this,” she said, “You know, preserve this moment for ever. Just us two, lazy, comfortable.”_

_“And sticky,” he responded with a grin. ”Strawberry?”_

_“Damson,” she shot back, “dark, sweet with rich depths and the occasional stone to surprise you.”_

_He thought, not for the first time, how she could wield words like her paintbrush. He, on the other hand, was straightforward in his speech, precise as befits a policeman._

_“Sketch it,” he suggested. “Preserve it that way.”_

_“No, it wouldn’t have the same atmosphere.” She sighed. “Interiors are so difficult, but…”_

_She stopped and gazed at him thoughtfully, then went and fetched sketchpad and pencils and began to draw. He knew from experience not to ask what she was doing; it was no good requesting to see a work in progress. She hated anyone, even him, seeing anything until she was satisfied with it herself. He saw the same sketch book several times over the next couple of weeks but he’d never been privy to the finished product. Perhaps she’d not been happy with it._

 

Lying flat right at the very bottom of the box was a package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Intrigued, he opened it. Inside was a decorative wooden frame complete with glass, and backing board. It was, he realised, the same size as the portrait.

 

_Another memory – Christmas morning that same year, the three of them sitting on their bed, Andrew subdued at the sight of his mother’s sunken eyes. She’d had a bad night, the as yet unidentified fever making her sweat even in the unheated bedroom. He knew the effort it took her to sit up and watch as they opened their presents to each other. A strip of red fabric with elasticated holders for her brushes had been his gift to her and she’d made much of how it rolled to carry easily even as he worried that it may be some time before it was used. She’d thanked him with tears in her eyes._

_“Your present, Christopher, love. I’m so sorry, I haven’t had chance to…”_

_Her voice had trailed away as he assured her that it was of no consequence, that when she was well she’d have all the time in the world to get him something. And he’d not thought of it again as her deteriorating condition, the diagnosis and finally her death had banished all rational thought from his mind._

 

In a burst of clarity he knew that this was it – his Christmas present. It wasn’t that she hadn’t had chance to get him something, but that she hadn’t finished his gift; not framed and wrapped it. He was breathing as fast as if he’d run up here; for one glorious moment it felt as if she was here, smiling at him, handing him this portrait so lovingly drawn – a small spark of light in the darkness. He took the portrait and framed it carefully. He’d never been one for photographs of himself, would never normally display such a thing. But this was different. He’d hang it on the landing, out of the eye of any casual visitor but there for himself and Andrew to see. And although the grief was still present, he found he could return his own small smile as he looked at it and thought about the damson jam. The heat of the afternoon made the landing warm and stuffy as he stood in shirt-sleeves and hammered the small brass picture hook into the wall.

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he whispered, “and thank you.”

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Foyle’s War and its characters are created by Anthony Horowitz and the wonderful actors who portray them. No infringement intended, no profit made. 
> 
> How cruel was Mr Horwitz, teasing us with minimal information about Foyle’s life before the series began? The combination of a younger Foyle, along with the complete unknown that is Rosalind prompted the Foyle Flashback! I hope you enjoy this window onto earlier times – and feedback is always appreciated.


End file.
